


The Gift of a Name

by thewolvescalledmehome



Series: Blossoms of Hope [1]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Arranged Marriage, F/M, Identity Issues, Jonsa Spring Challenge, Kinda, Post-Canon, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-16
Updated: 2019-03-16
Packaged: 2019-11-18 19:05:54
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,302
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18125255
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thewolvescalledmehome/pseuds/thewolvescalledmehome
Summary: Jonsa Spring Challenge Day 1: gifts and colorsAfter the wars and the winter has ended, both Jon and Sansa try to reconcile who they were with who they become.





	The Gift of a Name

Sansa stared at her wardrobe dressed only in her shift and small clothes. Blacks, greys, and navy stared back at her. All her dresses from the last few years, since she’d returned to the North—returned home, were nothing but dark, drab colors. They were fitting for the winter, for the war, but all that was over. There was no need for somber colors anymore.

The war was over.

Spring was here.

All her demons were gone.

She didn’t have to cloak herself in black and lace herself away from the world. She didn’t have to hide behind armor anymore.

She turned and dragged a trunk from beneath her bed. When Jon had her things moved into the lord’s chambers before the wars, Sansa shoved it all away. She wanted no reminders of that stupid girl she used to be, but now she wanted no reminders of the last few years. Of everything they’ve been through.

When Sansa opened the trunk, memories of her childhood spilled out. Dresses she’d sewn, her old embroideries, dolls that her father had gifted to her throughout her girlhood. The colors of the fabrics, though faded with time, were still the most vibrant thing in her chambers. The sapphires, indigos, azures, and sky blues. The emeralds, olives, mosses, and jades. The lilacs, lavenders, violets, and amethysts. Colors she hadn’t worn since she was a girl, some of them since before she’d gotten her first moon’s blood.

She didn’t understand why her hand trembled as her fingers brushed the silk of one of the dresses.

Not a single one of the dresses would fit her anymore—she outgrew them all long ago—but they called to her.

These were what she wanted to dress in. Not the blacks, the greys, and the navies. Not the dresses that were stiff with laces. Not the dresses that were heavy with armor, metal, chains, and dragon glass. She wanted the lightness, the flowing freedom of her childhood.

* * *

Jon paced the length of his chambers, the words of the council meeting echoing with each footfall.

_Every king needs a queen. And heirs._

_You need a marriage alliance to the North. They won’t bow to a Targaryen—not after Robert’s Rebellion, and certainly not after this most recent war._

_Alys Karstark is near your age. She’d make a good match._

He knew everything they said was true, but marriage, alliance, heirs? It was all too much, too soon.

And he wasn’t a Targaryen. He’d never be one, no matter what his blood said.

He was nothing like _her._

The entire meeting, the only thing he kept thinking was how he wished Sansa were sitting beside him, giving her opinions. He’d wager she would have a thing or two to say about a marriage alliance. About the North not bowing to a Targaryen.

 _You’re a Stark to me,_ she’d told him once, before the winter and wars began.

She would’ve said he was still Ned’s son—he was raised in Winterfell by Starks. His blood didn’t change that.

It was what she’d said that night in the godswood after Bran had revealed the truth.

 _Plus,_ she’d said, _Lyanna Stark was your mother. You have Stark blood._

He tried to say as much during the meeting, but the words got tangled around his tongue. The way they always seemed to after someone called him a Targaryen. Every time someone called him something other than _Snow._

All his life he wanted to be Jon Stark. Be a lord. Marry a highborn lady—someone beautiful and kind. Have a son of his own and give him a name—a real name, not _Snow._

Now he was king, and they were telling him to marry a lady and have a son of his own. It was more than he could ever dream for, but it felt nothing like he imagined it would.

None of it mattered if he wasn’t Jon Stark.

They wanted him married before the spring turned to summer, but the idea of marrying for an alliance, of spending his life with someone just for political gain, made his stomach turn.

He wasn’t even sure the name they would give the heirs. Everyone kept calling him a Targaryen because of who his father was, but that wasn’t a name he wanted to pass on, or a legacy he wanted to burden.

But _Snow_? How would history remember the king with a bastard’s name?

And it wasn’t even his. He wasn’t a bastard, or so Bran said.

He wasn’t a Stark, a Targaryen, or even a Snow.

He was nothing.

* * *

Sansa hesitated outside the great hall. She knew it was filled with Northern lords and their families, with those left from the great Houses that survived the wars. It was filled with people who undoubtedly remembered the girl she had been and people who only knew her as the woman she was.

She hadn’t intended to make a grand entrance, but she’d taken too long dressing and now everyone was already seated and eating.

She’d come to the front entrance of the hall, thinking she could enter unseen with stragglers, but it was empty. She should’ve gone through the side door and slipped in next to Jon without notice. Now she would have to cross the entire hall to claim her seat.

She took a deep breath to calm the nerves, smoothed her hands down the front of her dress, and held her head up high before stepping through the doors.

As soon as she entered the hall, her eyes immediately locked eyes on Jon. He was talking to Davos, who was seated on his right. He didn’t see her, but seeing him immediately reminded her that she was home—this was Winterfell, _her_ Winterfell—and the wars were over. It also helped her ignore how all the heads swiveled towards her as she passed, conversations quieting.

It wasn’t until she was in front of Jon that he looked away from Davos.

“Your Grace,” she murmured, dipping into a curtsey. She heard Jon’s chair scrap back as he stood.

“Lady Stark,” he answered. She’d been called so many things: Lannister, Stone, Bolton. Being called Lady Stark sent a thrill through her, even though she’d heard it before.

When she raised her eyes to his, he wasn’t looking at her face. He was looking at her dress. She almost felt herself smirk.

The hall was too quiet though, and she felt Davos’ eyes on them, so she quickly took her place on Jon’s left.

“New dress?” he asked quietly.

“Technically, these are all old dresses.”

After she’d pulled the trunk from beneath her bed, she’d spent hours ripping the out the stitches until she had enough fabric to make something that would fit her. She’d picked dresses that mirrored the colors they saw outside now: the blue of the spring sky and the fresh green of the new grass. It wasn’t as beautiful as she’d hoped it would be, or embroidered in fancy designs the way the Southron dresses were, but it was flowy and colorful and exactly what she wanted to be wearing.

“I…I like it. Blue’s a good color on you,” Jon said, and Sansa couldn’t help but smile. She felt like herself—not a Lannister, Stone, or Bolton, or even Lady Stark. She felt like Sansa.

“Jon, have you given any more thought to the marriage alliance?” Davos asked from Jon’s other side. She felt the smile drop from her face.

“Marriage alliance?” she echoed.

“To a Northern house. The Karstarks and Umbers won’t bow to a Targaryen king,” Jon muttered darkly.

“But… you’re not,” Sansa replied. “You’re a Stark.” She almost reached for his hand—she saw how it was flexing beneath the table the way it did when he was nervous or stressed. She knew Davos would see that though, and she could never quite understand what it meant when his eyes lingered on her and Jon.

“He doesn’t have the name,” Davos reminded.

“He’s the king of the Seven Kingdoms. Why can’t he just take the name? He has Stark blood.”

“He’s still half Targaryen.”

“He’ll still be half Targaryen regardless of who he marries.”

“He’s sitting right here,” Jon mumbled.

“The Northern lords would feel more comfortable if he married someone of the North.”

“I’m still giving it thought,” Jon said, ending the discussion.

From the corner of her eye, Sansa saw his hand flex again.

* * *

Jon had just shucked his jacket when a knock sounded on his door. The sound had him reaching for Longclaw until he remembered that the wars were over and the only enemy he ever knew to knock was gone, burned in a fire of her own creation.

“Sansa,” he breathed, too quiet and too worn. He didn’t sound like a king at all. He sounded like a greenboy, not even a man grown. She was still in that blue dress. It made her eyes look like the seas in summer.

“May I come in?” she asked. Jon’s heart stopped beating for the second time in his life. “I wanted to talk.”

“Of course.”

“I was thinking,” she began, pacing in front of the unlit fireplace. “About what Davos was saying at dinner, about a marriage alliance with a Northern house.”

Jon felt his heart resume beating, but something felt off. His skin felt cold despite the warmth of the room.

“He and the other lords seem to like the idea of Alys Karstark,” Jon offered.

“That would make sense. The Karstarks are the closest family to ours—we even share some blood. It would be a logical choice.”

“What if I don’t want logical choice?” Jon asked, voicing his resentment towards the idea. “What if I don’t want to marry someone just because the council tells me to? What’s the point of being king if I have to listen to everything they say?”

“Listening to others is what makes a good king,” Sansa said softly, pausing in her stride.

“I know, Sansa. But… I never wanted this. Any of it. All I wan—” Jon choked himself off from admitting the truth to Sansa. She stared at him, her Tully eyes open and trusting to the point it nearly made him crumble.

“What do you want, Jon?” she asked, voice gentle.

Even through the wars, she was always so gentle with him. Even when she was firm, it was soft. He’d never met anyone like her. He doubted he ever would.

“All I ever wanted was to be Jon Stark. To have a name. The Stark name. It’s the first thing I ever remember wanting.”

The warmth of her hand against his sent shivers through him. She twined her fingers between his scarred ones, her palm against his.

“So, the lords and Davos want you married to a daughter of a Northern House, and you want to be a Stark. What if…” she started, but Jon barely heard her over the roar of blood in his ears and the feel of her hand in his still. “What if there’s a way to give the lords what they want and give you what you want?”

“Sansa…” he breathed, stepping back, but her hand still kept his.

“When I was in King’s Landing—”

“You don’t need to talk about it.”

“When I was in King’s Landing they called me _the key to the North_. I spent years afraid that no one would ever marry me for love. All they would want is my name and Winterfell.”

“I’m sorry—”

“All I want is someone who will love me. All you want is someone who will give you the Stark name. The lords want someone with a connection to the North.”

“Sansa—I…w-we’re family…” he stuttered.

“Cousins. Marriage between cousins is perfectly acceptable. And it gives everyone what they want.”

Jon stared at her, his chest rising and falling too quickly. He was dreaming. He must be. He had actually died in the wars and this was the gods asking his forgiveness for everything they put him through.

“U-unless… Unless, you don’t want this…” she whispered, pulling her hand from his. He caught it before it slipped fully from his grasp.

“Of course I do, Sansa. But… I don’t want to marry you just for your name. I don’t want to do that to you.”

“Jon, I’ve been sold and beaten and kept prisoner. I never thought I would see my home or my family again, but you… You helped me get it all back. You helped me keep it. I want you to have my name. I want to give it to you. After everything you’ve given me… Everything you could give me. Not because I want to be queen, but because I know you’d never hurt me. You’re Jon. I can trust you and that’s the best gift you could give me. The least I could do in return is give you my name.”

When the lords were talking of marriage, all Jon felt was empty. Hollow. As if he had truly come back as a ghost. Now, he felt warmth and a swelling in his chest. Hope, he thought it might be. He could be a Stark.

He could marry Sansa.

Sansa, who he never thought of as a sister. Who stood by him through both wars. Who pulled him back from the brink of despair when the Red Woman brought him back. Who comforted him when Bran revealed the truth about who he was.

Who said _you’re a Stark to me_ and cloaked him in the furs and sigil of Eddard Stark.

“Jon Stark,” he breathed.

“It’s all you’ve ever wanted.” Sansa took his other hand in hers, pulling him closer. Jon leaned his forehead against hers, soaking in the warmth.

“Thank you, Sansa.”


End file.
